the sintex tank on the terrace roof
stands four floors up, indifferent, aloof,
resting on an angle iron frame
that long forgot its primer paint and name.
where water overflows at half past five
because the pump was left alive,
a streak of orange-brown begins to eat
through welded joints and galvanized sheet.
the iron gives itself away
to summer heat and monsoon spray,
reverting back to soil and dust
through steady, microscopic rust.
down on the road the cement mixers grind
to build more towers for the human mind,
while three flights up, a single flake of red
falls on the moss where pigeons tread,
quietly proving that the earth
takes back in rot what we gave birth.